Bailiffs to the left of me, lawyers to the right; judge straight ahead. Half a league, half a league, half a league on. (Whoops… sorry, your honor. Went half a league too far.)
Yes, well… greetings from the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill on this blessed week of giving thanks. Thanks for what? Nothing, that’s what around this dump. Forgive my ill humor… it’s just that the man-sized tuber – our own beloved root vegetable companion – has embarked upon a virtual reign of terror as our municipality’s new mayor. I’ll tell you, friends, you never really know a person (or a sweet potato) until you’ve a.) had them over for holiday dinner, or b.) elected them village mayor or town supervisor. The maxim about absolute power corrupting absolutely may well be ascribed to the extremely limited power conferred upon the executive in charge of the little hamlet that has heretofore reluctantly tolerated the presence of Big Green. Silly me – I thought with one of our very own in that position, we would be safe from sanction, yay unto the ages, we and our progeny (not that we have any as of yet). Oh, I was so wrong. (Spoiler alert: that happens quite a lot.)
I mean, it was only hours after they hung that victory ribbon on his… his… chest-like protuberance that he started issuing edicts of the most punishing character imaginable. First there were the codes enforcement decrees – what we have come to refer to as “The Awful Things”. Matt heard this pounding on the front door, and attached thereupon (with a railroad spike, no less) was a parchment-like posting that advised us in no uncertain terms to leave the premises or face eviction. Yes, there was a grace period – 48 hours. Generous, eh? This much consideration (and no more) from someone we pulled out of the ground with our bare hands. What was he before he met us, eh? A NOTHING! A NOBODY! A…. a… SWEET POTATO! Who brought him up from the unforgiving earth? Who gave him his little wheely cart to ride around in? Who took him from one end of the galaxy to the other as our trusted mascot? (If you need answers to any of this, let me know.)
Well, that was just the start. Next came the firefighters. They were banging on the door, climbing in the windows, selling us raffle tickets, all on the orders of the man-sized tuber. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) was so undone at the sight of these first responders that one of his 
capacitors blew and he started listing up and down the halls, emitting smoke and humming “Keep the Ball Rolling” by Jay and the Techniques. Mitch Macaphee, Marvin’s inventor, has been following him around with test equipment as we fend off the firemen. It actually took Anti-Lincoln’s guile to get them to desist. He started selling them (forged) raffle tickets right back. But hot on the heels of that disruption came the codes enforcers – big, burly fellows with measuring tapes, T-squares, and deadly writs from the local magistrate. That’s right – the man-sized tuber had blown us in to a justice of the peace! (A redundant title if ever I heard one, for there can be no justice without peace… or is it vice-versa?)
Either way, we got headaches, and it’s all because of one of our own. And to think I attended tubey’s budding ceremony last year! There’s gratitude for you.
